Le Fantome
by LadyDennean
Summary: The rating may change, depending on where I go with this... Despite the title, it's in english... For all you Phantom phans, enjoy! My version of what happens to our beloved masked man after ALW's Poto ends... Not for Raoul-lovers...
1. Chapter 1-Betrayal

"Dammit, Christine!" He whirled on her, eyes behind the mask enflamed with raging ire. "Did you think I would not find out?"  
  
"Erik, no!" She took a trembling, frightened step back, the tears beginning to stream down her porcelain-white face. A face, save for the tiny red splotches on each cheek, that was as white as the full face mask he wore. "It... It wasn't what you think?"  
  
"No? Christine.... I was there!" He too two quick, angry steps towards her, but behind her was a wall and she could not step back. "I saw you! I saw you in his arms, swooning as he whispered how he would help you, keep you safe... I heard you, Christine, heard you begging him to take you away..." He turned away abruptly, the icicles of hurt, betrayed anguish shattering a heart that he had for so long hidden. If only he'd never shown it at all... "Away, Christine... Away from me!" The last word ended in a low, sad wail of desolation.  
  
His back, slumped and etched with defeat, was to her; she could have escaped. Indeed, she took two flighty steps towards the large, oaken door that would lead out, but then she glanced back over her shoulder, and stopped. She couldn't. She couldn't just leave him like this. He was crying again, the eloquent agony sketching his shaking shoulders and trembling posture. The radiance of his pain so profound that it nearly broke her own flitting heart, and she wished, for just a moment, that Raoul had disappeared into her past for good.  
  
"Oh, Erik..." She whispered very softly.  
  
He didn't seem to hear, even when he turned to her. "Why, Christine? Why? I would have laid all of Paris at your feet, but for you to stay with me... but for a kind word, a touch, your love!" He fell, sobbing still.  
  
She flinched back, and opened her mouth to say something, but he went on, cutting her off.  
  
"Why him, Christine? Why this little chap?" He turned away suddenly, words dripping suddenly with bitterness and disgust. "Ah, but I know this, don't I? Yes... Your handsome little man, who hold a title, walk down la rue at noon, give you baubles and riches beyond your dreams... All I could give you is pittle compared to that, hmm, Christine? After all, all I could give you is love!"  
  
"Erik!" She gasped, taken aback by his words, her cheeks flushing and chasing some of the ghostly white away. "That's not fair!"  
  
"Fair, Christine?" He uttered a sharp bark of hoarse, humorless laughter, and she flinched again, this time from her own alliterations. "You can speak to me of fair?"  
  
She heard, rather than saw, the mask being torn from his face and she shut her eyes-not wanting to see-as he turned to her again gain.  
  
He grabbed her wrist, and she jumped, as startled by the deathly chill of his skin, as by the unexpected touch itself. He very rarely touched her, as though he feared that she would pull away, which she almost did. Then she winced again as she felt the spongy, cold, scarred skin of his face, wet from his tears, as he forced her hand to touch his cheek.  
  
When he spoke again, the anger had momentarily subsided to pained self-loathing. "Yes, my beauty. My angel, who cannot bear to meet my eyes, or to view my face unmasked. I know. I know, my beloved... This face, which drove my mother to the brink of madness out of fear, and earned my father's hatred. This face which makes even me scrabble to don the one thing that has never judged me; my mask. This face which brings your loathing, and poisons our love..."  
  
Slowly, she opened her eyes, and stopped struggling to pull her hand away. His eyes were dark, terribly sad, but not cold. They were never cold when they beheld her. Her hand on his cheek, gradually relaxed, until it cupped his injured cheek unforced by his own. "Oh, Erik..." She whispered softly. "Erik..."  
  
His eyes, his heart, his feelings were magnetic, and she felt drawn to him, even beginning to let him pull her close.  
  
Then Raoul made his untimely appearance.  
  
"Free her!" He yelled at Erik, who jerked as though he had been run through.  
  
Erik turned to him, eyes going flat in a venomous glance so chilling that Christine took a fearful step away, exceedingly grateful that the look wasn't directed at her.  
  
"M'sieur le Vicomte." The words fell like shattering, deadly glass, and even Raoul seemed to hesitate. "So glad that you could come..."  
  
"Do what you will, Erik, but let her go!" Raoul pressed, rather bravely, Christine thought, as he was going against a man so much swifter, stronger, smarter, and angry.  
  
"I'm glad you came, M'sieur. I have longed for such a clash." Erik continued as though Raoul hadn't spoken, one hand flicking the switch that would allow Raoul into the room. Mockingly, he sketched Raoul a welcoming bow, then moved away as Raoul surged forward and swept Christine into his arms.  
  
Raoul was caught up in the feeling of having Christine safe in his arms again, his again, he didn't notice Erik, who carried a thin, braided rope in his gloved hands, move behind him. He remembered Mme Giry's admonition  
  
(("Keep your hands at the level of your eyes..."))  
  
too late, as he felt the scratchy rope of the Punjab lasso slipped around his neck and pull tight.  
  
Erik danced away, releasing the other end of the noose only to have it dangle, as if by magic, in the air.  
  
Triumphantly, he roared with laughter, mocking Raoul as he put a hand to his forehead. "Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes! Nothing can save you now..." For a brief moment, Erik felt as though things were rushing too quickly for him to keep control, and he felt the impending tragedy that loomed, but he ignored it as a new idea-a way for him to keep Christine-lodged itself feverishly in his maddened brain. "Nothing... except perhaps Christine..."  
  
He turned to her. "Yes, Christine... Stay with me, love me, do as I say.... And I will let him go... Refuse me and you send your lover to his grave!" He recalled one of the songs from his opera, "This is the choice, Christine, this is the point of no return!"  
  
"Christine, no!" Raoul struggled to be free, and to call out to Christine at the same time. "No, my life is nothing without you!... For God's sake, Christine, tell him no!"  
  
Christine stared at Erik, hardly hearing Raoul's please. At first, she was torn, grieving at the choice she had known, from the beginning, that she would have to make, and then an overwhelming anger-one such that she had never known before-bubbled up. He, who lied to her, spied on her, frightened her, dragged her down to this darkness by force, no strove to sever any soft feelings she could possibly have for him? Yet, she couldn't just leave Raoul to die. She had no doubt Erik would follow through with his plan, and how could she leave Raoul to that? Dear, sweet, innocent Raoul who hadn't know what he was up against, and had sought only to save her from this...  
  
"Angel of Music, you've betrayed me..." She muttered thickly past the large lump that remained in her throat. "I gave my mind blindly..."  
  
He turned away from her, aching under the cold hatred in her tone, but knowing it was too late to go back now. "You try my patience, Christine," he whispered, hoarsely. "Make your choice."  
  
She hesitated a moment, studying his back, and trying to push away her own sadness and pity for him. She had to hold on to her anger, now, had to keep her feelings well contained. Yet, she couldn't prevent the escape of a small sigh, as she whispered, "oh, Erik... What has become of you? I only hope that I am enough to free you from your darkness..."  
  
She ignored Raoul's shocked grimace, and took two decisive steps towards Erik. She forced him to turn to her, and then, ignoring his own look of surprise, pulled his face down to hers and kissed him deeply on the lips.  
  
It was nothing like she had expected, she noted abstractedly as she deepened the kiss. Whereas the rest of his was so cold to the touch, his lips were warmer, and tasted faintly of brandy. Only the slightest returning pressure showed that he was trying-as much as he could or dared- to kiss back, and pressed closer. Amazingly, she no longer wanted to shove him away... It was as though all her anger, and anguish over the past few weeks were gone, and her heart was at peace. She knew, now, where she belonged.  
  
Erik had never been kissed before, not even by his own mother, who had fled from the very sight of him, and the meeting of Christine's lips with his own was unlike anything he had ever dreamed. Her lips were as warm as the rest of her was, and she trembled slightly as she pressed up to him. He raised his arms, which trembled themselves with shock and emotion, desperate to touch her, to hold her close, and yet just as frightened to. Too frightened. his arms hung there, so near to pulling her close, shaking with effort in the conflict between his heart and his fear, and yet he could not do it, he could not pull her close.  
  
At last, it was she who pulled away, staring up at him, her lips slightly swollen from the kiss. He stared back down at her for a long moment, still shocked by the kiss, and grieving by what he knew he had to do. He would release her, let her go with her little man. He could do no less. That kiss had changed everything. His heart tore with wanting of her, and knowing that, in but a few short moments, his beloved Christine would be gone from his life entirely. Life? What a laugh. There would be no life without his beautiful angel.  
  
Slowly, he moved to where Raoul stood, noting without satisfaction the despair and anger in his rival's eyes. As he moved, he picked up a candle from one of the tables, and brought the open flame to the rope around Raoul's throat. Burned, the rope dropped, harmless, to the cold, stone floor.  
  
Raoul, now free, rushed over to Christine. "Christine." He murmured, his own tears scratching his voice, "no... don't do this..."  
  
Erik flinched from where he stood, but forced the word out, nonetheless. "Go." He was careful not to meet Christine's eyes. He could hear people moving in the labyrinth; they were coming from him, then. Perhaps that was for the best, but he had to see Christine safe from there first. There was no telling what they would do to her if they caught her down there with him.  
  
Christine moved to Erik's side, thinking he spoke the word to Raoul alone. She was careful not to raise her eyes from the floor, and was surprised to feel Erik's gloved fingers lifting her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were still warm, but as unreadable as the expression of his mask.  
  
"No, Christine." He whispered, very gently. "Go. Go with your little chap, Christine."  
  
She stared up at him in shock, the words slowly sinking in. "Erik?" She questioned, bewildered by this sudden, unexpected change in events.  
  
"Go, Christine. Leave me here, go with your man, and be free. He glanced to Raoul, speaking softly but with certainty. "Take the skiff, and go. Don't let them find you."  
  
Raoul nodded once, not chancing his luck, then came forward to take Christine's arm and lead her out. Christine continued to stare at Erik for a moment more, turned mechanically, and allowed Raoul to take her away.  
  
Erik was able to keep his facade of outward calm and strength only as long as Christine was there. As soon as the outer door closed, however, Erik crumbled, the tears streamed down his torn face, and his heart trembled and broke. His angel, his beloved angel, was gone, forever.  
  
"Christine..." Her name came out a strangled sob. "Oh, Christine..."  
  
He heard the door click shut and his head snapped up, startled. Had the mob come that quickly? Was Christine safe from them? His vision was slightly blurred from his wet, burning, salty anguish, and he blinked a few times to clear it.  
  
There stood Christine, holding something in her trembling, pale, little hands.  
  
"Christine?" This time, it was her name that was questioning.  
  
Without speech, she moved to him, holding out her hand. In her palm, lay his ring; the gold band shimmered in the flickering candlelight, a flash of color in her pale hand. No, she wouldn't stay, but she would try to give back his ring, the one bauble that he had been able to give her?  
  
"No, Christine." He said, gruffly, shaking his head and closing her palm gently over the ring. "Please, keep it."  
  
She tried to protest, but he shook his head again, lifting his free hand-the one that didn't hold hers-and shaking off the glove. Then he gently grazed her cheek with his knuckles, reveling in the last feel of her satiny skin.  
  
"For me..." He murmured, softly. "Please keep the ring, Christine, and remember me. Remember your angel..."  
  
The desolation in his eyes and tone was heartbreaking, and she struggled with the sudden urge to declare, right then and there, her love for him. But to do that and then leave? No, she couldn't do that... Instead, she tightened her hand around the ring, and nodded. "I'll never forget you... mon Ange..." She whispered, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him once on his scarred cheek. Before he could respond, she pulled away, and hurried out, hardly noticing when the tears began to fall again. 


	2. Raoul's Change/Maurissa

****1 Year Later****  
  
Christine woke crying, her hand clutched around a golden band that wasn't there. Disoriented, she blinked a few times until she realized where she was. The walls weren't the dark granite of Erik's masterpiece home, but the light stone of the small maison that she and Raoul shared; the flickering on the walls was caused by the softly crackling fire, not by the hot, flickering candlelight that had adorned all of Erik's walls and corners. She was home, safe, sound, and six months pregnant.  
  
This face was made obvious as her child, unhappy by Christine's sudden, jerky movements, woke suddenly and kicked about for a while. Christine moaned softly, certain that her liver by now must be black and blue. She put a hand to her abdomen, rubbing gently, and shut her eyes.  
  
"Hush, little one. Hush now..." Whether the baby was able to hear it's mother's soft, sweet voice, or the methodic rubbing was soothing, the bulge in her belly heaved over once more, and then settled contentedly back down.  
  
She was very thankful that Raoul had not woken with her; he lay fast asleep on the mattress next to her. He had come home late tonight, and he had been tired. Late, he had told her tersely on his arrival home, because of work, and a new client, but Christine had smelled the pungent odor of rum on his breath, distinctive and venomous. He had really been out drinking, Christine knew, and whenever he drank, Raoul became cruel.  
  
About three months ago, Raoul had started to change. Where he had once been gentle, loving, and extraordinarily kind to her, he had become harsh and cold. Christine remembered the first time he'd actually struck her. He'd come home so late that night, reeking of alcohol and cheap tobacco, and she had questioned why he was so late. When she'd worriedly pressed the question further, he had turned on her, and she had taken a step back, startled and frightened by the deadly, frigid anger in his eyes. She'd pulled back, but not fast enough; his hand had shot out, and slapped her hard in the side of the face. She'd fallen to one side, curling protectively around the tiny bulge of her advancing pregnancy. Thankfully, he had stopped then. The next few times, he hadn't, and Christine had learned to be very cautious of his moods.  
  
Of course, he always apologized afterwards. Sometimes he even cried as he held her close, furiously stroking her hair as he sobbed his apologies. Then would come the gifts; the next night he would suddenly remember her favorite chocolates and bring some home for her, or he'd buy a necklace or ring he'd just happened to see as he passed by a jewelers which was so conveniently located down that avenue he so rarely took... Of course, she'd said nothing, only took the gifts, showed insincere but great amounts of gratitude and pleasure over them, and tried harder to watch his moods next time.  
  
The last time had been the worse so far; the bruise on her face still hadn't healed... She sighed as she tried to go back to sleep. That would mean she would unable to go to the festival tomorrow night. She's really been looking forward to that...Sleep came very slowly.  
  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~  
  
Erik had meant to die after Christine had left. He spent nearly two months writing his own funeral march, and putting his affairs-what little there were-in order. He didn't want to live anymore, not without his angel. Erik had meant to die, instead he had gained a wife.  
  
He shook his head slightly, mind replaying the events that had happened this year, and yet still seemed a fantasy dream. Two months ago, as he had been adding the last notes to his requiem, he had heard someone in the labyrinth. At the time he had ignored it, figuring it was Morel, the rat-catcher, and so he was taken completely unaware when the sound of the skiff hitting his side of the shore signified a visitor.  
  
Irritated, he'd risen and gone to see what fool had come in search of the Opera Ghost, and had been shocked to find a young woman lugging the skiff industriously onto his shore. for a second, he had imagined it was Christine, and his heart had raced in overjoyed astonishment. It fell again, however, when she had turned to him.  
  
It was not Christine.  
  
It was not Christine, but an attractive woman with the look of the aristocracy about her features, and the flash of madness in her eyes. Her own expression had dropped to unnerved shock to find him watching her, and then, very slowly, to his outright amazement, a look of profound joy skipped across her features as she saw who he was.  
  
"My God!" She had run to him, literally throwing herself into arms that he had just barely gotten open in time to catch her with. He had pulled her close by reflex, the impact of her small body against his jarring him back a few steps. "My God!" She had exclaimed, again and again. "My God! You're real!"  
  
His guest-as he had discovered later-was one Maurissa de la Mare, a young comtesse from Nice, who had come to Paris as part of her arranged marriage. She had learned, through some distant connection to the Populaire, or Erik and his tragic story. And, she had claimed, had fallen desperately in love with him.  
  
In love! With him! Erik twisted over on his bed, unable to sleep. She lay next to him, curled up, and snoring peacefully. He didn't think he'd ever be used to this. She didn't flinch from his unmasked features, didn't shudder with disgust at his touch... He'd never met anyone like her. While he didn't love her-or at least not that consuming, raging fire he had felt, and still did feel, for Christine-he was somewhat fond of her, and she loved him!  
  
Gently, he reached out a hand to pull her close, shutting his eyes.  
  
"Erik?" Her voice was drowsy.  
  
"Hmm?" He questioned softly, opening his eyes to look down at her. She was watching him again, blue eyes deep but tinged with a mental instability he knew of, but wasn't bothered by.  
  
"I love you."  
  
His breath caught a moment, surprised as he always was whenever she said that. Ever gently, he pulled her closer.  
  
"I love you, too..." He whispered back, wondering if maybe he spoke the truth... 


	3. The News

A few days later, Maurissa came in while Erik was composing. She was acting oddly. Rarely did she bother him as he played, preferring to either listen silently, enraptured by his gossamer melodies, or to simply leave him in peace while she saw to the rest of the house. Over the last few months, She had made herself comfortable, in his home, his presence, and his bed. As shocked as he had been the first time she had hinted at wanting to bed him, all thoughts of her leaving were drained in those first few moments of her touch, and the soft, salty, sweetness of her skin... He may never burn for anyone as he had Christine, but God had given him perhaps a last chance at some semblance of happiness, and be damned! He was going to have her!  
  
The last two weeks or so, however, she had become more and more strange. She was paler, more withdrawn than usual, and now she got up well before he did, whereas before she had been more than content to lie in his arms until he rose. He feared that he was losing her to the world above. She hadn't gone up since she had come to him, allowing him to go up to fetch whatever items they may need instead, but he knew what a siren's call it must hold for her; her, a creature of sunlight and beauty. Even he had struggled for life above, long before he had ever made his home below. He was losing her... just as he had lost Christine.... Oh, Christine....  
  
As she laid a gentle hand on his arm, making him turn from his music to glance up at her, he laid one ungloved hand, so unnaturally long and cold, and yet so graceful with the hidden music that he alone followed, on the hand on his arm. Something was bothering her... She wanted to leave? Was that it? She had come to tell him now that her things were packed, and she was ready to go back up. He could half see her calmly explaining to him how it had been fun for a while, but nobody, after all, wanted to live in catacombs all their lives, especially beautiful young women like herself, and so she was going... He braced for it as she began to speak.  
  
"Erik.... Can I... Can I talk with you a moment?" Her voice was unsteady, as though she wasn't quite certain how to begin. At least she was attempting to be kind about it...  
  
"Of course, chÃ©rie," he heard himself murmur in response, his thoughts more on what he feared she would say, then on what she was saying...  
  
"Erik, I don't know how to tell you this... I... I do hope you won't be terribly angry... I beg you not to make me go when you hear this... I couldn't bear to leave you... not now... But... well..." She twisted her hands in themselves, clearly unhappy and uncomfortable.  
  
Then came the bombshell... "Erik...." She took a deep breath; he watched her chest rise and fall with it, getting ready to let her go... "Erik... I'm pregnant..."  
  
"Of course... I underst....." He stopped in the middle of his sentence, feeling as though something had knocked the breath out of him as her words finally sank in... She was... pregnant? But how? Who? He had been nearly certain that she had not gone up... He spoke without thinking. "Who's.... is it?"  
  
"Why... yours of course!" Her brows furrowed in hurt anger. "You do not think I would play you false, do you, my love? I wouldn't... I swear it..." She was getting upset; tears were filling her eyes. She was frightened that he was displeased with her. She was afraid of him! Her words, and what they implied, where just beginning to sink in...  
  
"Mine...?" His voice was hoarse, more a croak, as he struggled for breath. "M... Mine? But... I mean..." He was going to be a father... At last, the meaning struck him full force... He, Erik Destler, Opera Ghost and Phantom, scarred freak show... was going to be a Father! With a loud exhale, and a noise suspiciously like a 'whoop,' he stood and swung Maurissa up into his arms. He was going to be a Father! Him! "Maurissa... Cherie.... A child.... My child?!" He laughed with astonished half-doubt, relief, and amazement.  
  
She let out her own breath, infected immediately by his good nature, and relieved that he was not angry, that he would not make her leave... "Yes... Oh, my love... You are happy then? My Erik... You are pleased?"  
  
He swung her around once, and then gently let her go, carefully, as though realizing how delicate she must be. "ChÃ©rie... of course I am! This is the greatest gift you could give me, Maurissa... A child... my child... Our child... This is wonderful.... Oh, Maurissa, chÃ©rie... Thank you... Thank you!" He felt no shame for the tears that streaked down his unmasked, disfigured features, as he both laughed and sobbed with the knowledge he know held. She hadn't been acting so odd because she wanted to leave... No, no, she was pregnant!... His child... 


	4. The Baby, Raoul... The Baby...

The pain was coming harder now, and Christine struggled not to cry out, as her gut twisted inside her. Raoul had called for the docteur, he would be here soon, Raoul had promised, he would be here and he would take care of everything. Everything? She choked on bitter, humorless laughter. Oh, he had taken care of everything all right.... She stared numbly down at the blood between her legs, almost gushing again as it had earlier... The baby... Oh, Raoul, she thought, unable to take her eyes off the blood which still flowed hot and sticky between her legs... Oh, Raoul, you bastard... The baby! Why the baby?! Tears streamed down her face as she glanced up at the approach of her husband.  
  
"Christine.... Christine..." The voice seemed oddly far away, and for just an instant she was back at the Populaire, Erik was taking her hand, guiding her, for the first time, down into his darkened home... Raoul was pounding at the door, trying to get in, but Erik had locked it. He had called her name then, too, but he hadn't hurt her then, either... Erik had never hurt her; Erik had frightened her, mocked her, and been as strict and demanding a voice teacher as any Master, but he had never hurt her. Why, he hadn't even touched her! Erik... A gentle slap across the face brought her back to the present, and her eyes focused on the worried, troubled expression of le Vicomte de Chagny. "Christine... I'm sorry, I had to do that... You were mumbling incoherently, I thought... I thought you were going mad!"  
  
Heated anger and anguish caused her words, which snapped deceivingly softly up to the man. "Oh, that? You mean the slap? What about everything else, Raoul?" Despair overtook her again, and she began to rock, sobbing, trying to comfort the baby that was no longer there. "The baby.... Gods, Raoul, why the baby?" Perhaps she was going mad...  
  
"My love, forgive me... I... I went to far... I was angry, drunk... I couldn't stop myself..." Again, came the apologies, as he went down on his knees to beg her forgiveness. The worst part about it, Christine thought miserably to herself, is he believes that he is sincere, and he believes so will my forgiveness be. "I'm so sorry, Christine... But... the docteur will be here soon, and he'll take care of everything... You'll be all right, you will, you'll see... And... and we can have another baby... Yes, a little boy or a little girl, wouldn't you like that? Oh, Christine..." He pressed a shaking hand over hers.  
  
"Raoul..." She moaned, then gave it all up to the terrible agony that had been her unborn child.  
  
A knock resounded at the door. The doctor had arrived.  
  
Just before Raoul got up to let him in, he whispered. "Christine, you mustn't tell him that I did this... You must say ... you must say..." He hesitated as he thought for an appropriate lie. "You must say that you fell! Yes, you fell, and you hit your stomach hard. Too hard, and this happened... Remember, Christine, they won't believe you over me, and that's what I shall tell them... All right, my love, I'll let in the docteur..."  
  
Christine simply sat, shaking and numb, where she was, knowing the truth of Raoul's words, and knowing that he would do so much worse if she tried to tell the docteur what had really happened.  
  
Charles Brynner was an Englishman, who had arrived some twenty years ago in Paris, and had become Christine's family doctor ever since. He'd known her since she was a child, knew every tear and smile, and had a sort of fatherly doting for her since she'd won his heart by singing for him at the age of three. Never had he met a more innocent, soft, child-at-heart... never had he met so poor a liar. He knew very well what had happened, but dared not say a thing, lest he upset the owner of the maison. He didn't fear Raoul; even at age 67, with his hair graying, and his vision beginning to recede from time's force, he was still strong and active, but he feared very much for Christine. So, as he bent down to her pale, bloody form, he wasn't slow to inject the pain killers that may have been a bit dangerous to chance on her considering her blood loss, but knowing that she needed them more than almost anything right now.  
  
He kept his voice loud enough for Raoul to hear him when he asked her how it had happened, but Christine's voice had come out soft, and weak.  
  
"I... I must have fallen, Dr. Brynner. I must have fallen and... and injured myself... Oh, the baby..." She began to cry, and his heart ached to comfort her, but knew he dared not.  
  
"There, there now..." He murmured, after he'd disposed of the syringe and returned to her. His warm accent soothing her somehow, as it always had a child. "I know, Christine... Shhh.... Hush, now..."  
  
At last she fell silent, weeping into his arms... He wanted to kill that man. 


	5. Chapter 5-Erik Jr.

It was the week the baby was due, and Erik was in tormented fear. As overjoyed as he was about the thought of himself being a father, he was riddled with agony over the thought that his son would be cursed with his scars. How could he do that to a child? How could he force his repulsiveness on his own flesh and blood? Of course, there was a possibility that the child would be born perfect, and that was all the hope that Erik had left. Maurissa was no help; with regret, Erik remembered the first, and last, conversation they had ever had on the subject.  
  
"But surely there is a chance... a chance that the child will resemble you.... The chance he won't be cursed with my appearance!" The thought had plagued him all that month.  
  
"Yes, " Maurissa had replied, grave, and sounding obviously regretful. "But we can only hope that won't happen..."  
  
He had been shocked by that, and certain he had misunderstood her. "You wish to hope that he is born with my scars?"  
  
At that, she had smiled, and Erik was reminded of the madness that lurked within her soul. "Of course, my love! Why ever would I want a son" -she'd been so sure it was going to be male, though Erik wouldn't care either way what it was- "that looks as disgustingly good as all the hypocritical bastards up there? He will resemble you! You, my love! You in everyday..."  
  
That thought had nearly brought Erik to his knees in frightened revulsion. No... No, surely the sins of the father would not fall on the son. Not this time. While Maurissa prayed for the replica of the father that she longed for in the son, Erik prayed even harder that his son would be flawless.  
  
That Friday, the moment came. Maurissa, who'd been sitting on the couch, watching the fire, and listening to Erik singing softly, gave a soft cry, and curled around her abdomen. Water flooded between her legs and then the contractions started.  
  
"Erik!" She had cried softly, jarring his melody. "Erik, it's time... Please..."  
  
Panic had immediately struck him, and he had swam for a moment in uncertain paralysis before snapping to, and rushing to the door. Maurissa had insisted that she did not wish to go up to a doctor, not even during the birth, and Erik had at last reluctantly agreed, not wanting to exasperate her in her condition. But just because she wouldn't go up, didn't mean Erik wouldn't bring a doctor here...  
  
"Please, chÃ©rie, wait just a little while longer... I will call a docteur to us..."  
  
"Erik, no!" She cried, but it was too late; he had donned his mask, cloak, and hat, and already vanished out the oaken portal.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, he startled hell out of AndrÃ© by bursting into the managers office. AndrÃ© had jumped to his feet, having never seen Erik so alarmed, and gone to his panicked side.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Un docteur!" He had cried, ignoring the look of surprise, and nearly shaking AndrÃ© in his hurry. "Un docteur! Depechez-vous, m'sieur! Get a docteur here now!"  
  
"Erik, what is the problem? What do you need the docteur for?" Regardless, AndrÃ© immediately went to his office phone and called for one of the most talented of the Opera's doctors.  
  
"The child! Maurissa is going to have the child!" He had explained in a rush, wondering what in the hell was taking the doctor so long to get there...  
  
AndrÃ© made some muttered curses, pressing the button for the doctor again and again, and a short time later, Doctor Charles Brynner came rushing in. Erik had removed himself to the shadows of the room, pacing agitatedly back and forth.  
  
"You rang for me, M'sieur?" He asked AndrÃ© softly, sensing the alarm in the room despite the man's presence of calm.  
  
"Indeed. The matter I am about to present to you is being given to you in the strictest of confidence, M'sieur..." AndrÃ© started, severely. It would do no good to have the doctor help with the birth, if he went around later and spread rumors about the opera ghost. Erik had escaped the mob only by a hair's breadth of quick thought, and AndrÃ© didn't want to go through that again.  
  
"I understand, M'sieur." The doctor did indeed. Many of the higher officials all around the city went to Dr. Brynner for a number of things that they did not want disclosed to public; sometimes they had gotten a mistress pregnant, and didn't want their wives to find out, sometimes they had unsightly diseases that the public mustn't no about. Yes, Dr. Brynner knew well about secrets, and if there was one thing he could do, he could hold them to his grave.  
  
Then he felt the presence behind him, and turned, right into the face of a large, powerful being, wearing a dark cloak and hat, and masked. Yellow eyes, much like a cat's, burned out at him, and he took a startled step back. Then he remembered all the hullabaloo that had been made over some kinda of monster living in the Populaire. He, himself, had heard time and time again through his dealings with the Opera, about the 'ghost,' but, having never seen or heard anything mysterious, he had been quick to consider them fanciful superstitions. He quickly amended that.  
  
"Dr. Brynner, please meet Erik, a close friend of mine who needs your aid." AndrÃ© said softly, quickly, before Charles panicked.  
  
The man in the mask nodded curtly, eyes cold and wary, but completely sane. Dr. Brynner forced himself to take a deep breath and relax. He nodded back, becoming completely professional with the knowledge that the man before him needed his aid.  
  
"What appears to be the problem, Monsieur...." He lost his calm a moment. "M'sieur...?"  
  
"Erik, please," came the man's soft, cultured voice. For just a moment, Charles was swept away by that voice; the sonorous beauty of it both captured his senses, and almost made him want to weep.  
  
He nodded, breaking himself from the trance. "Erik, then. My name is Charles Brynner. Dr. Charles Brynner. Now, what seems to be the problem?"  
  
Did he catch a hint of a smile on the man's face?  
  
Erik had only met one doctor before in his entire life, and he was nothing like Barye. Instead of having the cold, calculating expression of a man not yet in his prime and still green and eager to know the workings of everything, Dr. Brynner had the face of a man who had come to grips with advancing age, and was now as doting as a grandfather on anything that needed his help. He seemed like nothing more than a kindly old man, and Erik breathed a soft sigh of relief, doubting that this one would be trouble.  
  
"It's my wife, Monsieur." He murmured, softly, remembering Maurissa and once again having to surpress the quiver of his emotions. "She is pregnant, and has started labor."  
  
The man's eyes widened in startlement, and then he composed himself and nodded. "Take me to her then. I can help her."  
  
Erik led him down below. Maurissa was waiting.  
  
Four hours later, he heard Maurissa's soft voice calling him into the bedroom. She had begged him to wait in the library, not wanting him to see her in the distress, and, worried, he had at last assented. She had already sent the doctor out when he came in, and he entered slowly, nervously.  
  
She lay on the bed, face flushed with blood, hair stuck to her face and neck and draped around her pillow, and completely soaked through with the perspiration of labor. She was covered with a white sheet, and she held in her arms a bundle of cloth. Movement came from the cloth, and Erik realized that that was where she held the child. His child...  
  
"Take it from me." The voice was cold, and Erik, whose eyes had been riveted on the bundle in her arms, flicked up to her in surprise.  
  
"Maurissa? What's wrong?" He moved to her bedside quickly, wanting to hold his son, see if God had been merciful just once, but first he had to see to her.  
  
"Take the boy, Erik." Her voice was full of thick disgust, as though she was reviled by the newborn she held, and Erik realized she was holding it at arm's length away from her. The knowledge that he had a son only boyed his spirits up for an instance before Erik's spirits fell into gloom; the boy, then, the boy was cursed with the scars... He had brought his own curse down upon his flesh-and-blood, his son, his child...  
  
Gingerly, he took him into his arms, almost too pained to look, but realized he had to. Holding the baby close to him, one massive hand gently cradling the tiny, frail skull, he pushed aside the cloth that hid him from sight with one finger, taking his first look at the creation of him and Maurissa, the seed of his loins.  
  
There was no blemish on the pale features that held orbs of the deepest blue; his child, his son, was perfect. 


	6. Richard/Maurissa's Demise

"There, there now..." Christine hushed Richard gently, stroking his hair, as she tried to get past the bulk of her pregnancy. Richard de Chagny, at age one and a half, wanted nothing more to be up and playing again, and wanting little more of his overprotective mother and her wide girth.  
  
"No." He muttered darkly, trying to pull away. "No. Wanna play now."  
  
"Well, if you played now, you'd be too tired to play in the morning." She responded logically, hiding a smile as he thought this completely through.  
  
"But, Mama..." The protest was lost as he at last laid back down in his bed.  
  
"Hush, now..." She murmured softly again, her hand stroking back the rich, dark hair atop his head, and then the voice that had won the heart of an angel began. Although it had never been used the way Angel-she shied away from thinking of his name, and if she thought of him at all it was as her Angel-would have had her use it, but Christine couldn't not use it at all. And sometimes, late at night, when she sang to her son, sweet memories inundated her with the times she sat by the mirror and sang duets; a dark but infinitely rich tenor haunting her thoughts.  
  
As what always happened the moment she was swept away by the music, she lost complete track of time and herself, and when she finally ended her song and looked down, Richard was fast asleep. A small smile coaxed the tired corners of her lips upwards for a brief moment, and then she sighed again and turned away. The soft melody seem to drift gently through the room, and it was only after a long moment that Christine realized with a start just what she had been humming; almost painful flashbacks of a masked man bending over her, singing as he gingerly laid her on the bed, gently pressing her hair back from her face. Erik, Erik was the one singing, Erik was the one holding her so gently close; she had fainted, he must have thought her still unconscious, for he was handling her as though she was made of glass, as though he wouldn't wake her for the world. Her eyes were only the tiniest sliver, watching him, half-frightened, half-craving of that angelic voice... Yes, her Angel, her guardian, her teacher... her lover... Lost...  
  
The banging of the front door opening and slamming shut tugged her back to the sad reality. No, no, she wasn't under Erik's grace anymore. She was with Raoul.... Raoul...  
  
"Christine?" The voice was harsh, her name slightly slurred; he was drunk again.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Maurissa watched the little cub, idling playing with the violin his father had crafted for him. Gifted, she thought bitterly, oh, yes, he was gifted... A gifted little monster! He didn't even deserve the name that she had blessed him with; didn't deserve the same appellation of his father, that wondrous, magnificent creature of magic and beauty. Oh, yes, with your Angel's face, she thought, slowly moving over to the book case, and pulling one of her own books from the shelf; behind it lay a small vial, which she had been careful to conceal entirely from Erik. Your Angel's face with which you think you've won us all... You didn't... No, no...Your father may think you blessed, may think you are so wonderful that you do not bare his face, and you may have one that stupid manager, AndrÃ©'s adoration, but you are nothing but a little, hypocritical, worthless pretty-boy!  
  
Of course, she didn't say this aloud, knowing how exceptional Erik's hearing was. He was outside, handling a hole in the bottom of the skiff. No, it would be much better if he stayed out there during this; he would be angry with her, for a while, that she had no doubt. But it would be much better that he stay out there, so that he couldn't stop her from doing what had to be done, to save their child. Yes, I may have birthed you a worthless rat, but you will be your father yet, my son... For the first time, gentleness and motherly affection washed over her; she didn't hate her son, no, in fact, she did this because she loved him. She would save him, she would protect him, she would be his salvation; she would rescue him from himself, and from his looks. At least he was completely unsalvageable; he took after his father in brilliance and talent, now, all he needed was a new face...  
  
"Erik, sweetheart... come here..." She used her most syrupy voice to draw her son close, and then, before he could move or called out she pushed him down, onto the tabletop. A triumphant smile flared across her lips as she unpopped the cork of the vial with one slender finger; she began with the left side of his face. Slowly the acid-concocted by Maurissa herself-began to eat away at the white, pale face, and little Erik began to scream at the searing pain.  
  
She was too caught up in the moment; too caught up with watching the faint acid steam, watching her son writhe as she held him down, watching the acid make his face a replica of his father's, to hear the oaken portal slam open, and to see a desperate, alarmed Erik rush in.  
  
"Nooooooo!" It was a hoarse roar as Erik with sudden, awful clarity, comprehended what was going on; what Maurissa was doing to his son. He rushed over to her just as she turned to fend him off. His strong, large hand shot out by reflex and gripped her throat as he knocked the half-full vial out of her hand. Most of it splashed up on her, making her gasp with the sudden pain that she had brought on their son... Erik lost complete control of himself, then, listening to the agonizing cries of his little boy, knowing he was already too late to save his child's face, and feeling the need-the desperate ache-to kill boil through his veins....  
  
He lost control of himself, and what he did to Maurissa that night, was lost in a haze of forgotten anger.... He only remembered that he had- must have-ripped her apart, completely, and savagely murdered his wife, and afterward.... He had managed to save at least some of his son's features. While the acid had eaten away some of his flesh, even to the point of showing bone, he had managed to save his eyes, mouth, and the right half of his face. With the sadness and bitterness that threatened to consume him once again, loathing himself for not being there to protect little Erik from the madness he had known was in Maurissa, he had fashioned the one garment he had finally convinced himself his son would never need;  
  
A mask....  
  
A child's, white, half-mask... 


	7. My Angel...

Night streamed slowly down upon the Populaire, drowning its few occupants and one lone man into the shadows he loved. He stood upon the roof of le Palais Garnier, staring down almost regretfully at the beautiful city that thrived below and beyond. One, large, ungloved hand gently stroked the stone of an angel statue, which stood majestic on the parapet beside him, the other held a thin, catgut rope, which his thumb idly stroked as his mind wandered to other things. He knew that he shouldn't stay up here long; young Erik was down below, and, though he would only be five come the end of this month, he had inherited his father's mental dexterity, and no doubt was trying to discover away to be free from the labyrinth and wandering the upper levels of the Opera House. Perhaps he already had; a thin smile creased the corners of lips hidden by a full, white face mask. Perhaps he already had...  
  
His eyes slowly flicked to the rope he held limply in his grasp; ah, the Punjab lasso, so sleek, so trustworthy a weapon... In his mind, he remembered whose neck had once hung in its grasp, and he pushed the thought roughly away. He had promised himself that he wouldn't think of her tonight... He should have known how impossible that task was; not a day, not a night, went by that he didn't picture his angel's face, that he didn't remember for at least thirty seconds that kiss that was all he had left to treasure. He was struck, suddenly, with a desperate urge to know where she was at this moment, and what she was doing. Immediately, he pushed that train of thought, knowing it would lead to further pain, and telling himself that even if he did carry on with it, he couldn't find his way to the small maison again, anyway. Yet, even as he tried to tell himself this, he knew without doubt the very path he could take to arrive there.  
  
"Papa?" The small, soft voice that came from right behind him actually took Erik by surprise. He gasped softly and whirled, careful of his balance on the edge of the rooftop.  
  
His son, hair mussed slightly, perhaps from his escape, and dressed in a small, white shirt and the dark pants that both father and son preferred, stood not four feet away from him. His eyes were slightly tired, and he shivered a bit in the cold night air. Quickly, Erik jumped gracefully down beside him, and swept the little one into his arms, suppressing a chuckle. He made his voice as severe as he dared, still fighting back his pride that his son had, after all, managed to find his way up, not only to the normal opera floors, but all the way up to the rooftop. "Erik, I told you to stay down below."  
  
"But, Papa!" Laying his head upon his father's shoulder, eager to be held, despite the fact that he was a 'big boy,' Erik jr. matched his father's tone. "It is lonely down there, and I missed you! Why must I stay down there all the time when you go up? I want to be with you! I want to see what you see! Please, father, don't make me go back down, not without you."  
  
Unable to force his child away after such a simple, sincere plea, Erik simply hugged his child tightly, still awed and wondering, even after five years, about the magic of being a father, and the gentle, generous love his son gave without thought of repayment. When the boy shivered, Erik drew his cape more securely around them both and went back down into the labyrinth that had always been home to them both. Still holding the child close to his shoulder, he kicked open the door to his room, and laid his son gently on his own bed.  
  
"Papa... don't leave me..." Erik jr.'s voice was soft and drowsy, and he struggled not to release his father for a moment.  
  
"Hush, now... I won't, I'm here, I'm here..." Very gently, he stroked the dark hair back, covering him up warmly, and sitting close... Then he began to sing softly, his voice no less hypnotic to his son than it had been to Christine and countless others. This time he sung a soft, sweet lullabye that he himself had composed, and moments later, his son rested in a deep slumber.  
  
As he stared down at his son, mind more on his thoughts than the peaceful scene before him, he was again struck by the urge to see Christine again, this time more powerful. Would it hurt to see her? He questioned, and knew that damned right it would, and yet he was already up, donning his favorite cloak and hat, and letting the punjab lasso slip into the folds of his garments. It would hurt, and yet, he couldn't stop himself. Before he really contemplated just what he was intending to do, he was out on the streets of Paris, hidden by the shadows of the night, his long stride intent on the path he knew surprisingly well. Within moments, he was standing outside the balcony that housed Christine and her husband. Climbing the terrasse, and stood upon the balcony itself, staring in the glass doors, trying to see just who was inside. Perhaps they didn't even live here any longer...  
  
And then he heard the voice; the soft, sweet, ethreal voice of his angel.... Christine... It had been five years, and yet, with the first exuberant notes of that tender soprano, all the memories, all the pain, all the lonely heartache, and all the love came streaming back into his soul, bringing tears to his eyes, and making him take an unthinking step forward. There she was! There she was, his Christine, his beloved, coming into the room, singing softly as she moved about, cleaning up. She was as beautiful as ever; he watched her, startled at first by how she had matured, how she had been changed by the years, and then equally as shocked by just how similiar she was. She still carried that air of childish innocence about her, still had that slightly mincing walk, and was still as beautiful and as graceful as when Erik had first fallen in love with her over five years ago.  
  
She was singing, and with another violent shiver of surprise, he realized just what it was that she was singing; one of his songs! Something he had composed for her long ago, and given to her on the first night she had triumphed the audience with her amazing soprano. She remembered him, even in that one song, maybe just that one song, but she remembered him!  
  
He was moving towards her before he had conscious thought of what he was doing, and at the last moment, seconds before she would have noticed his presence, seen him there, he jerked back into the blind safety of the shadows. He couldn't let her see him! He had let her go! He had promised he wouldn't... She had fallen onto the bed, and was covering her face with her hands, making odd, hiccupy noises. It took a moment before Erik realized she was crying. Again, it took all he had not go to her then, not to sweep her into his arms, beg her not to sob, wipe away her tears... She was crying! He had to do something; he could not stand to see her in such pain, could not stand to see her in any pain, let alone enough to make her sob.  
  
"Oh, Christine...." He didn't even realize the whisper had left his lips aloud.  
  
Immediately, her head jerked up, searching the darkness with frightened, eager eyes. She couldn't see him; he had been too cautious for that.. But her eyes searched for him anyway, searched the shadows that quietly kept their secret, uncertain that she had heard anything, and yet knowing with her soul that she had...  
  
"Angel?" She slowly stood, the tears standing in her eyes, the rivulets of the last ones still showing their salty tracks, which glistened in the firelight.  
  
Then he was gone.  
  
He couldn't have let her see him... No, No.... He couldn't have... And in the darkness, in the stillness of the house as she had tried so desperately to find him, he had heard the sound of an infant. 


	8. Little Blind Angel

It was the night before Journey turned a year old that Christine realized she didn't love Raoul; that she had never loved Raoul. And she had wished since that night, and every night after, that she had only had that foresight so much sooner. She also wished it hadn't taken such a tragedy to bring that wisdom to light. Journey hadn't been well for a few nights; she had gotten a little bit of a head cold, and had already started to teeth, so she was hardly in the best of moods to begin with. Raoul had been gone for a few nights on business, and, although Christine knew he was supposed to have been home the previous night, he had gone out drinking, so by the time he finally returned to their small maison, he was covered in the sickeningly sweet smell of brandy, and completely intoxicated by the liquid that had caused that smell. He had come in careless, as the intoxication often caused him to become less than thoughtful, and Journey, who had finally and unhappily just gone to sleep, woke up screaming from the noise.  
  
Instantly he had turned on her, and Christine rushed over trying to get her to calm. She wanted nothing to do with the gentle petting, so Christine had hastily set her in the large wooden crib, and rushed to get her a bottle, the only thing that would soothe her when she could not. She hadn't been fast enough for Raoul.  
  
"Shut that squalling rat UP!" He had roared, staggering drunkenly over to the wooden enclosure which still held the screaming child. His eyes, slightly glazed over from drink, were blazing with unreasonable rage.  
  
"Raoul, please.... DON'T!" But she wasn't been fast enough to get between him and the child. He drew back one large, meaty fist, and brought it down hard across Journey's petite, delicate features. She had been thrown hard by the force of the blow right into the back of the crib, cracking the back of her tiny, frail head against the sturdy wood. Immediately, she went silent, and crumpled into the corner.  
  
"Nooo!" Christine screamed, rushing over to her child, and immediately drawing the small, limp body into her arms. Raoul simply looked smug, glad that he had gotten the rat to quiet down, and swaggered into their bedroom, collapsing onto their bed in a drunken slumber. Christine grabbed her coat, bundled up Journey as quickly and as gently as she could, and rushed out into the darkened night, in search of a doctor. A month earlier, Dr. Brynner had moved to America, and Christine yearned desperately that he had not, that he could help her...  
  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~  
  
Despite the new docteur's abject surprise and assurance that the opposite would be true, Journey had lived through the blow and the resulting trauma. She had been in a coma for three months, and although Raoul had ordered the life support machines turned off immediately with the docteur's diagnosis of death, she had breathed on her own. Christine stayed with her night and day, even though Raoul had ordered more than once that she returned home where she belonged. The housekeeper of an old friend of Christine's father had been persuaded to watch over Richard while Christine remained at l'hopital, and when Journey had finally opened her tiny blue eyes and stared up at her mother, Christine had wept for the better part of three hours.  
  
It wasn't until Christine had brought her home and gone to check on her a couple of hours later, that Christine learned of the true result of what Raoul had done. She had moved slowly into the room, thinking Journey asleep. Moving silently over to the crib, she hadn't seen the cord to the light, and tripped on it. The lamp came crashing down, the bulb inches from the baby's face... The child did not even blink from the blinding light. She jumped faintly from the noise of her mother nearly falling on her face, and then the soft soprano shriek of surprise when she didn't even turn away.  
  
Scrabbling to keep her balance, Christine rushed over to her daughter's side. Half-disbelieving, half-fearing the truth, she took the lamp away. Quickly, she passed her hand soundlessly before Journey's open, staring eyes. Nothing. No blink, no following movement, no dilation of the pupil.... The baby did wince at the reverberating scream of horror that shook the house as Christine realized just what injury had been caused.... Her baby, her daughter, was blind...  
  
She snapped; one moment, Christine was staring with horror as her baby stared sightlessly back up at her, the next moment she saw red as she realized what Raoul had done to her daughter.  
  
"Raoul, you bastard!" For once, he was home, sober; poised on the sofa, reading le Journal. A look of confused surprise crossed his features, as he saw Christine headed his way.  
  
"Christine..." He blinked, momentarily taken aback by language he hadn't even thought Christine had known. "What are you..."  
  
He was silenced by the resounding slap she laid across his handsome features.  
  
"You, bastard!" She screamed again. "Our daughter, Raoul! How could you!"  
  
"What about Journey... she's fine... The doctor said she'll be fine..."  
  
"Fine?" She all but dragged him into the room. Again she passed her hand in front of her baby's eyes; again, the infant didn't so much as blink. "This, Raoul.... Oh, you bastard..."  
  
Raoul was too astounded to speak. He hadn't know what he had been doing that night; he'd been too drunk to care.  
  
Without another word, she picked up Journey gently into her arms, careful of the still bandaged little head. Richard toddled into the room, confused by the loud noises he had heard, confused by the look on his father's face; she took his hand gently, picked up her shawl, and left the apartment, doubting if she should ever come back. 


	9. Her Return/Fudge Merchant

In the end, as she always did, Christine came back to him. She managed to stay away for three months this time, at least there was that, but in the end, driven by loneliness, fear, and her sheer inability to fend for herself, she went back to him. But this time, she swore there would be changes. For once, she intended to stick up for the children; if he laid so much as laid a hand on either of them, she would leave him. She didn't know where she would go, but she would go. If she ever got pregnant (and with the realization that she didn't love him, she lost all interest in that area), and he touched her with pain, she would go.  
  
He had been apologetic, loving, sincerely sorry... like all the other times, but for once, he didn't go back to his abusive ways immediately. For a while, he stayed away from his late-night bars, stayed away from the bottles of alcohol, from the cheap games of cards and the whores that went with them. And for those few blissful months, Christine thought that maybe he had changed for good, maybe he did love her and the children that they had made together. Maybe there was a chance for them after all...  
  
It took only the first few months for her to learn how to care-and to teach Richard how to help-with her now completely blind daughter. Thankfully, besides the loss of vision, that was the only lasting damage to Journey, and Journey was soon up and playing, happy, regardless of her lack of sight.  
  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~  
  
A tiny figure wandered the streets of Paris, hidden by a cloak that was two sizes too large, and quick to fall back into shadows. Not discouraged by the deluge that sent most of the locals scurrying home for cover, he took absolute delight in the multitude of novel things that dazzled his eyes, as well as that he had successfully escaped the building that had always been his beloved home, but lately had also been a prison to his eager, six-year-old mind. He took a last, quick glance behind him, although he had already rounded too many corners to be able to see it; the Opera Populaire... home... father...  
  
Quickly, he put further distance between himself and the large, stone building. Father was going to be absolutely furious with him! If he was harshly scolded for simply going to the normal floors of the Populaire, and doubly scolded and scowled at for going all the way up to the roof, what severe punishment would be his for leaving the Opera House all together?  
  
With a simple shrug of his shoulders, little Erik dismissed the dangers of his father's wrath. One did, after all, have to take some risks in life. Besides, he was six-years-old, certainly old enough to be looking after himself. And, when all was through and done, when he returned home finally and accepted his father's anger, well, at least he would have the memories of this great city that he had often yearned to know from his vintage view on top of the Paris Opera House.  
  
Some people, scuttling for shelter as the rain began to pour down in a new onslaught of torrential downpour, nearly bumped into him and he jumped quickly back into the safety of a dark alleyway, fingering the leather satchel he now held. He glanced only briefly at the ID found inside before tossing it over his shoulder, and greedily searching for money. He fingered a large ruby ring, trying to discern the value of it, and then grinned as he caught sight of the wad of francs he found hidden a little deeper. Counting it with a casual scrutiny, he was pleased with his little trickery of the moment. Perhaps he had doubted his abilities once, but he had been taught by his father, the master of illusion, after all, and the one time he had managed to steal something of his father without the older man's knowledge, was the moment little Erik had no more doubts. If his father, who knew every trick of deception as well as had the senses of a large cat, couldn't catch him, then what could the poor fools in the upper world think to do? And now, to feast on the spoils...  
  
Pulling the hood, which had slipped off as another gift from the horrible weather, around his face again, he traversed the narrow Parisian streets, hoping that a chocolate shop might still be open. He was disappointed again and again up the first few rows of shops he came across, but at last he saw one that was not yet, quite, closed. He could see the owner, an aged man with graying hair and a friendly face, just getting ready to close up shop, and he slipped into the door, careful not to be seen. Making sure to stay in the shadows that the gracious night had extended him, he made his way to the fudge counter... It was open. His eyes on the prize, and not on the man who had gone into the backroom, he began to reach out to snatch a piece of chocolate chocolate fudge. Then he felt a hand, withered with age but strong, clamp down on his shoulder, and muffled a startled cry as he was whirled painfully around. The man looked much scarier close up, dull hazel eyes, the right half clouded by cataracts, were now brilliant with anger, and he was at least as tall as Erik's father, or so it seemed to the boy at the time, and he had a gun in the other hand.  
  
"A little thief, eh?" As Erik cringed away from the man, hiding his half-mask as best he could because his hood had fallen away, he was shocked to hear gentleness in the man's tone. Very slowly, his arms came away from where they protected his head and face, and his eyes, wide with fear and surprise, slowly raised to meet the man's.  
  
"Please, monsieur." He mumbled softly, head dipping with the manners his father had insisted he learn. "Please, I was not stealing.. I was going to pay for them, je promets..."  
  
"Were you then, lad?" Now there was amusement in the elder's face and voice, and Erik was relieved to see him put the gun down on the countertop. "And with what were you intending to pay?"  
  
"Money, of course..." As though he really needed to prove it, Erik pulled out the wad of francs he had stolen off the scurrying couple earlier, and shoved it towards the man.  
  
The man glanced briefly down at the tiny, sweaty palm, and smiled, and Erik felt very much less afraid, only now his fear was quickly being replaced with a feeling of foolishness. And what would his father think when he learned that Erik had been found out, seen, caught? God.... Papa... Papa would be furious! He felt tears sting the corners of those bright blue orbs, and he hurriedly looked down in shame. A real man didn't cry... Perhaps he was only a boy after all...  
  
He was startled again by the older man, whose gruff voice brought little Erik's eyes back up to meet his. "There now, lad, don't cry. It was only a piece of fudge, and you had money after all..." Little Erik felt himself being lifted gently off the floor and set down on the countertop. He was unable to keep the half of his face that wore the mask away from the light as he was taken away from the shadows, and he heard the soft gasp as the man saw it.  
  
"What's this then?"  
  
Erik checked to see if the small dagger he'd stolen off his father was free from it's sheath, and held it carefully in a hand he hid behind his cloak. If the man touched the mask, if he tried to remove it.... Erik would make sure he did not. He had heard what the bad people above had done to his father when his father was hardly older than Erik, himself, was now. He had heard about the rocks being thrown, the jeers and taunts... the cage. Such a thing would not happen to him, he swore it in his mind. He would send the man to hell first.  
  
Instead of reaching to pull it off, the man pulled up a chair and sat down, making him and little Erik at eye level now. He did not touch the mask, but Erik could plainly read the curiosity in the man's eyes.  
  
"It is a mask, sir." Erik's voice trembled with faint anger and fear. He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice, but he was not entirely successful.  
  
"I can see that, laddie. It's why you're wearing it that I want to know."  
  
The man was going to reach for the mask; he was going to hurt Erik! Erik pulled out the knife, and in a flash had it poised and ready.  
  
The shopkeeper looked down at it for a long moment, and then regarded the child holding it for a few moments more. He smiled, and held out his hands, showing he meant no harm. "There, there, now. A man's a right to his own secrets, I will not be forcing you of yours."  
  
Erik did not put away the knife.  
  
"C'mon now. You might hurt something with that, and the prisons are no place for a man as small as you. Now, you came for fudge, oui?"  
  
Slowly, Erik let the knife drop, but kept it in plain view. The thought of fudge was making him less cautious, and at last he nodded, eagerly.  
  
"Well, fudge is what you shall have then. What flavor were you wanting?"  
  
He let his eyes slip to the case next to the counter, which contained a dozen types of different flavors and varieties. He'd had a piece of chocolate chocolate chunk fudge once, and he'd adored it. Why waste a chance like this to get a different flavor he would be unsure about? Almost immediately, the small hand, finely covered with a glove miniature to the ones his father wore, pointed to the plate that held the chocolate chunk fudge.  
  
"And a good buy it is then." The man was careful to select a large piece from the platter, wrap it up carefully, and put it in a bag. "That'll be two francs, lad."  
  
Erik's eyes went wide; the sign in front of the platter said ten francs, not two. However, the man's eyes told him not to question his good fortune, and he hurriedly slipped two francs into the man's waiting hand. Deftly, he hopped off the countertop onto the floor and slipped back on the hood of his cloak. He moved to the doorway, and, on impulse, turned back. Slowly, leisurely, he made his way back to the man and held out one of his tiny, gloved palms.  
  
"My name is Erik, sir." He put on his deepest, manliest tones and attitudes.  
  
The man chuckled softly. "Angus, lad. Angus Mackenzie. God be with you."  
  
Erik left in the shadows, more quietly than he had come.  
  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~  
  
"What did you think that you were doing, Erik?" The eyes behind the full face mask were furious, just as little Erik had known they would be. "I have told you time and time again what could happen up there, I have warned you time and time again about leaving.... What did you think that you were doing?!"  
  
He flinched back, feet scuffing the floor ashamedly, eyes on his black, marked shoes. "Nothin... Papa, I just thought-"  
  
"You just thought what?" The elder man roared, advancing angrily on his repentant son. "You just thought that you would waltz up to the street and have a look around? That the people up there would forgive the mask, suffer no curiosities, and let you have your foolish whim? I thought I raised you not to be a fool!"  
  
"Nobody saw me up on the street!" He shouted back, not afraid of his father, and becoming equally as angry. "I was careful of that! I stayed in the shadows just as you taught me, Papa... You have been up there! You go up all the time and you don't get caught! No one finds you or hurts you, Papa, and I am just as smart as you are! Besides, they aren't all cruel..." He remembered the kindly face of the fudge merchant. "There was a nice chocolate man and he gave me some-"  
  
"You were SEEN?!" The roar this time nearly shook the large house across the lake, and sent little Erik stumbling back, a bit fearful, and feeling very stupid. He had not meant to let Papa know about the man... and here it was, he had stupidly let it slip.  
  
He had no choice but to nod, and he shut his eyes. "I... I didn' mean to, Papa... I only wanted some fudge... I was gonna pay for it... I had some money that I pilfered... I only wanted a piece of chocolate, Papa...." He mumbled softly, flinching back from the palpable anger in his father's eyes and voice.  
  
To his surprise, he was swept into his father's arms and held tightly. Then he noticed the sparkle in his father's eyes, and all the self- righteous anger was gone, only shame and self-loathing remained.  
  
"Don't cry, Papa!" He pleaded, softly, his own eyes prickling with hot and heavy tears. "Please, don't cry! I didn't mean it, Papa! I'm sorry, I'm sorry... I won't disobey you never again!" He curled close against his father's broad chest, beginning to cry softly, wanting to make it right.  
  
"Oh, Erik..." His father's voice was the barest whisper, and the agony in it was so tight and painful that the little boy could only remember it being so bad once in his entire life... The one time, he had entered the room-which now remained locked and bolted to him-at the end of the hall, and found his father clutching a white lace veil, his face pressed to it; Erik could remember being shocked at seeing his father, for the first time, in tears, and then had come that tormented, soft whisper-so much like the one he had just uttered-saying the name 'Christine.' Only then had the pain in his father's voice been so terrible.... And now it was again. "Oh, Erik.... " The tall, heavily cloaked man whispered again. "I was so afraid that I had lost you... The world up there... would kill you if it could, and I could not live without you if that happened... You are my son, my beloved little boy... to see you hurt, dead, by those above.... Erik.... Oh, Erik.... My son..."  
  
"Don't cry, Papa... Please... don't cry..." Ripping off the half-mask and letting it fall to the floor, the boy butted his head into his father's shoulder, trying to stop his own tears, and trying to comfort the older man at the same time. "I'm sorry, Papa... I'm sorry.... I won't do it again... I promise... Please don't cry..."  
  
"Erik, I wouldn't ever forgive myself if something ever happened to you!" The elder Erik pulled his son firmly against him, cradling him close, and struggling to regain his usual composure. "Please, don't ever go up there without me again.... Please..."  
  
"I won't, Papa, I won't... I promise... Don't cry..." More than angry words, or threats, those sad, panicked tears that streamed from his father's eyes made him stick to that promise, and he vowed to himself never to run off again.... For as long as he could, he kept that promise... And for the next fourteen years, he lived alone with his father, in the bowels of the Opera Populaire, learning voice, illusions, and everything else the Opera Ghost had to offer.  
  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~  
  
******14 years Later****** 


End file.
